Modern Masculinity and Self Harm
by JForward
Summary: Sometimes, his anger gets the better of him and he has nowhere to direct it but inwards.


W/N: So maybe I write too much. Sh. I have nobody else to write with and my Jeff RP blog on Tumblr is being completely ignored so… yeah. A lot of improvements in this fic have to be credited to my friend, Seth, who helped me get a better grip on Jeff's character. Anyhow. Have more terrible fanfic!

It seemed that the group had fallen into some roles. Abed would've gone all meta about it, but Jeff saw it from a real perspective. They all had to channel somehow, and in this school, some normality was a good thing. But somehow, Jeff had ended up in the dad role. Britta in the mom role. Weird. He wasn't that type, not in his mind, at least; he was the brain. The logic, cold and calculating and clever, definitely not some dad figure. Nope. Definitely not. So how the hell had he ended up like this? Storming into classrooms to protect his twenty-one year old friend like an over-protective boyfriend, getting into fights over the rights of his socially-exempt friend to take cookies, hell, being a lawyer in a _classroom debate about who owned a sandwich shop! _This place was driving him to a place he hadn't been since - well - ever.

Even as a kid with a group of friends, he'd believed he was the best. His mom had made sure of that. Then when his dad left, when Big Cheddar humiliated him, he had hardened himself to the outside world. Jeff Winger, at age 11, decided that there was no point trying to be a good person - only winners win. So he would be a winner. And what the hell had happened to him? Here he was. Surrounded by people he cared about, that cared about him. And what was he doing? Ruining it. Ruining everything. His job was to take care of the group, now, to guard and protect these people, keep them as whole as possible. And if he fell apart in the process? That didn't matter. They weren't there to take care of him, and that wasn't important. He'd cancelled his last two meetings with his therapist and looked like he'd be cancelling the next one.

His mind was a maelstrom. Britta had been right about the anti-anxiety tablets, about what they would do to him, taking away any limitations on his ego. But that ego was his guard, it was what kept him as Jeff Winger, rather than - whatever the hell he was underneath it all. And he wasn't sure what he was underneath it all, what he was supposed to be, who he was supposed to be. The old scar under his wrist spoke of a different person he'd been when he'd first been debarred. So, yes, he'd been vain as all hell when he'd become a lawyer, but then it had been for a purpose, not just out of necessity to protect himself. The whole idea to end his life when he couldn't be something worthwhile… being 'saved' hadn't felt like being saved. Then Greendale had popped up as an option. A life saving option. He'd gone to a therapist, started getting things fixed, and was fine. Totally fine. Hide the scar under a watch, never mention it, cocky shield in place and there he was.

The knife turned over and over in his fingertips. He was sitting in his usual skinny jeans, jumper, sleeves pulled up to the elbows. He'd taken his watch off, staring at the old mark on his wrist, from two years prior. Of all the things he'd fallen into, this was probably the worst of them. He wasn't a self harmer. Not really. He wanted a way out, it seemed the quickest, the most painless, and he'd been unwilling to put the energy into going and getting tablets. So it had been a knife across his wrist, deep as he could bear, and waited for death. And it hadn't worked. He'd survived. Wimped out of the follow-up attempt, and now he was three years into Greendale, sitting in his apartment and considering digging the blade into his skin again.

He didn't want to die. No. Not this time. Jeff wasn't sure what he even wanted. Ever since the first time he'd driven a blade into his skin, there had been a confusing urge to do it again. Something about the payout, about the reward, had made it seem worthwhile. But not this. Not this time. He stood up, walking with a determined step to the kitchen, shoving the knife out of sight. "I'm better than this." he growled to himself, determined, "Jeff Winger doesn't self harm. Not now. Not ever." he looked at his wrist, swallowed hard, and pulled on his watch, doing it up tight as possible, until it stung. Good. A good distraction. But it wasn't enough.

"All I ever do is help them," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he paced. His hands flexed in and out of fists. The stress was redirecting itself into anger. He had to let this out properly before he did something stupid - walking over to the kitchen again, he poured himself a glass of scotch, taking a sip, but his hands were shaking. It was no good. If he left, he was going to end up getting in a fight with someone, and Jeff still wasn't fond of damaging the moneymaker. He slammed his fist down on the worktop, then again, over and over until he managed to still himself. Turning away, he continued the movement, hitting at his wall.

It didn't even hurt, but there was a sense of relief in it. It felt good. So he did it again, remembering when he'd done the same in his late teens. Hitting walls, rather than people, rather than something that could hit back. Good stress relief. His fist hit the wall again, marking the plaster, but now he didn't even care. Each strike gave him more relief than the previous, still feeling no pain, putting more and more effort into each hit. When he stopped, he must've punched it a dozen times. Looking down, through a foggy feeling he recognised that his hand was covered in blood. Looking back up at the pale wall in front of him, the red smears matched. "Whoops." Jeff murmured to himself, slowly flexing his hand, feeling the stinging start. The skin across his knuckles was torn, but he was barely recognising any pain. It would start in a minute, he was sure.

Jeff picked up his scotch with his non-stinging hand, moving to sit on his couch, taking a gulp of the booze and enjoying the way that throbbed, too. Now that his hand was starting to hurt properly, Jeff just let himself sit there, feet up on the sofa, contemplating the way the blood was trickling down his wrist. Hm. He was careful to not let it stain his designer clothing, but as it started to really hurt, he decided to actually do something about it. Getting to his feet, he went into the bathroom, washing away the blood under the tap. This was normal. A good way to let out his anger, to release the pressure. Masculine. He should invest in a punching bag, probably, but for now the wall would do. He could wipe away the blood tomorrow. When he sat back on the sofa with a fresh glass of scotch, he'd roughly attached a strip of bandage across his hand, trying to cover the wounds before they bled too much.

"Jeff, are you okay?" Annie's voice was concerned, reaching out to rest her hand on his. He yelped, jerking his hand away from her, holding it close to his chest. The whole group stared at him, Annie's concern only getting worse. "Jeff, your hand looks really swollen. What happened to it?"

"Yeah, and why do you have a bandage on?" Britta asked. Jeff glared at everyone, seeing their concern.

"I got into a bit of a fight. That's all." he said, voice heavy with a don't-mention-it tone.

"You? In a fight?" Pierce scoffed, "We know you can't fight worth a shit, Jeff. What really happened? Trip over a weiner?" the group didn't even get a chance to scoff at Pierce's terrible attempt at humour.

"Guys, drop it!" Jeff snarled, smacking his hand down on the table and then making a noise of pain, jerking it back to his chest. With his other hand, he grabbed his books and stormed out of the room, leaving the others utterly shellshocked.

When he turned up for their lunch meeting, the study group weren't there yet. But to his surprise, he saw some items sitting on the side that weren't normally there. A little jar of antiseptic salve, a fresh strip of gauze, painkillers. There was a definite touch of Annie about this whole situation, but he didn't mind. Smiling just a little, he undid the fabric that was already on his hand, wincing as it pulled on the dried cuts, triggering them to bleed again. Cursing softly, he rubbed the salve in, wishing he didn't enjoy the sting so much. Then he carefully rewrapped it, not doing a very good job - before startling at a voice behind him.

"Do you want me to do that?"

"Annie." Jeff murmured, and she gave a slight shrug, with that awkward half-smile she was so good at. "How long have you been lurking out there?"

"You weren't at lunch. I just wondered if you were okay. How's your hand?" she approached as he turned, reaching out to gently take the injured appendage. He hissed slightly between his teeth as she undid the piece of linen, her hands feeling very slight, soft and cool on the hot, swollen skin. He didn't reply, letting Annie inspect the damaged skin, move his aching fingers.

"Ow." Jeff muttered, and Annie shook her head slightly.

"This is broken, Jeff. What the hell did you do?" she asked, as she redid the gauze, tying it far better than he ever could one-handed.

"I was in a fight." he insisted, face hard.

"What with, a wall?!" she responded, shaking her head - and when he didn't respond, she looked up to see his uncomfortable caught-out grimace. "Jeff! You hit a wall?! Hard enough to break your hand!" he opened his mouth, shut it again, swallowed. Then when he realised her glare wasn't stopping, he nodded slightly,

"Yeah, kinda. It was more like… five times. Or so."

"Jeff!" her voice was reaching ear-bleeding levels of squeaky, "You have to go to the hospital! What the hell did you do that for?!"

"Well, I guess I didn't like the paint job-" she slapped him lightly in the chest, not looking at all happy with his cocky grin.

"You're going to the hospital. Now."

"What about your classes, Annie?"

"It's fine, I can phone it in just once. Family emergency." she beamed at him, grabbing her stuff and putting it in her backpack.

"Except I'm not-"

"Jeff, you're family. So shut up. We're going." she grabbed his hand - and immediately let go as he yelped, half jumping back, slamming a foot on the floor to express some of that pain. "Sorry! Sorry." she took ahold of his forearm, leading him quickly from the room. He followed, unwillingly, pulling his car keys from his pocket.

"Oh no you don't." she reached out and plucked them from his hands, ignoring his _'Hey!' _of displeasure. "You've got a broken hand, Jeff. You can't drive one handed, and frankly, I wouldn't be in a car with you if you did. We'll take my car." she put his keys in her bag. "And I can drop you home tonight." he gave her a deadpan stare, but Annie had that cheerful I'm-not-letting-go-of-this expression on, so Jeff gave up.

"Alright, thanks, Annie. You can go now." he told her, at the door to his apartment. She looked a little let down. "I'll get a cab to college tomorrow and get someone to drive me back in my car. Alright?" she nodded, just a little, but didn't move as he opened his door and stepped inside. Jeff paused, as he stood just inside the doorway, frowning at her. "Annie, are you okay?" then she bustled past him, and he groaned.

"Jeff, I just wanted to make sure -" her eyes were raking the apartment, searching, and she spotted the bloody smears on the wall, walking over.

"Damnit, this is an invasion of privacy-" he let the door swing shut, following her. His hand was now awkwardly bound in a cast. "- Annie, what are you doing?"

"Why did you get in a fight with the wall?" she whispered, staring at the marks, "You kept hitting it after you were bleeding. That's not normal, Jeff."

"What are you talking about? All men punch walls, it's how we teach the world about our masculinity." he leant on the wall a bit further down, crossing his arms as best he could. "It's normal. I don't have a punching bag."

"Well, I know what I'm getting you for Christmas." Annie murmured, then shook her head a little.

"Jeff, this isn't normal. Seriously. It's really not. Most people don't do that. They - I don't know, hit a pillow, or punch a _punching bag_, or they do anything apart from hitting the wall until they break their hand!" he blinked at her, opening his mouth in genuine surprise.

"Why are you so upset about this, Annie?" he asked, and she reached out, taking his other arm. Without a word, she unclipped his watch, and held it in her hand. She looked at the line, then back up at him.

"I know that you've hurt yourself before, Jeff. A lot of people don't realise how easy it is to fall into traps like this. This? This is more than just lashing out, Jeff. It's not a normal man thing." she swallowed hard, and he realised she was about to cry.

"Annie…" he drew back, "Can you put that back on?" he held up his cast-bound hand slightly. She nodded, and did it back up, making sure to cover the old scar. Then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around him, accepting it.

"If you ever need someone to talk to, Jeff," she said, quietly. "The whole study group will listen to you. I mean it. You're worth more than just bringing us together with speeches, okay? We care. We really do." she leant back, and he gave her a tight smile.

"Thanks, Annie." he said, quietly. "You head back to the apartment and get some rest, okay? I'll see you tomorrow." he led her to the door. "And, uh - make sure you tell them I punched someone in the jaw and broke my hand, alright?" she nodded, with a wider smile, and left. He stood, watching her leave from his apartment window; then, ignoring the warnings on his little painkiller bottle, Jeff got himself a glass of scotch and sat on his couch, staring at the turned-off TV, throwing his car keys in the air and catching them repeatedly.

W/N: Please, please leave creative criticism, I'm very concerned for my characterisation recently and would like to improve, thank you J


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